


Toil and Trouble

by TheMourningMadam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMourningMadam/pseuds/TheMourningMadam
Summary: George is desperate for the companionship of his twin amidst a time when no one else in his family understands him. Through some questionable means, he gets his wish. For a short while.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14
Collections: Pumpkin & Ginger Fall Fest





	Toil and Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story is Dark. There is absolutely no fluff or romance involved. This is a story of a twin, addled with desperation, playing with necromancy-like potions and bringing someone back to where he doesn’t belong. It’s gory at times, there is no Light to balance it out, and it ends in complete tragedy with multiple deaths. If you have triggers surrounding death, murder, or mutilation, perhaps sit this one out. It’s more in line with something Stephen King-y, to be perfectly honest. It is not beta’ed and all mistakes are all on me. 
> 
> Prompt: “Double, double, toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.” --William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” and written at the behest of Rosella_Burgundy.

_ Empty. Incomplete. Desolate. _ Emotions warred within George’s body and mind, none of them welcome and all of them causing him nearly paralyzing agony. It had been months since the end of the war, months since he had felt complete. In those endless days and weeks, visions of his murdered twin haunted his every thought. He’d driven his fist through every mirror in the Burrow within the first week. He’d had to grow a beard and dye his signature ginger to a deep chestnut just to stomach sitting alongside the pond behind his home, its reflective surface mocking him. After getting rip-roaring drunk one night in July, he nearly set fire to the joke shop. Only Hermione Granger had been able to talk him out of such drastic measures. 

In the wee hours of sleepless mornings, George spent his time reading over books on bringing the dead back to life. Everything from the story of the Deathly Hallows to questionably procured literature on necromancy. After begging Harry to reveal the location of the discarded Resurrection Stone to no avail, he had gotten desperate and began researching the properties that comprised the Stone. He had created countless Draught of Living Death batches. 

Though not an exact duplication, George had managed to create a potion that worked opposite of the Draught. He had managed to bring a few fish and some posies back from a withering death. Without larger victims to experiment on, he knew he would have to go on blind faith that he’d gotten every ingredient, every flick of the wrist, every incantation absolutely correct. 

And what exactly did he have to lose anyway? Fred couldn’t be anymore dead than he was at this very moment. 

o-o-o

Unable to see the sleek metal urn that encased his brother’s cremated remains, George had hidden the capsule under some blankets in his wardrobe at the Burrow. As the fingers of insanity stretched and tore at him, he often swore he heard Fred’s laughter coming from within the urn. Everyone else was quick to explain the impossibility of this, as though Harry hadn’t heard whispering coming from all of Voldemort’s horcruxes before they were destroyed. His tolerance for his dismissal of his feelings and beliefs was wearing on him, his temper high and irritation niggling at him from every angle. 

He was fresh from an argument with his mother, wherein she had attempted to get him to go to the joke shop— _ “If even for a few minutes—”  _ for the umpteenth time. His hands shook from the altercation, tiny crackles of electricity dancing around his fingertips. He could hear the sound of his twin’s laughter, taunting him. As he tossed the blankets aside, the noise grew louder, ringing in his ears as his hands closed around the metal. The urn should have been cool to the touch, but instead it was warm, vibrating heat waves transferring to his fingertips. 

He needed Fred back in his life. The rest of his family was hellbound and determined to drive him spare. Setting the urn on his work bench, he began twisting off the top. Within the vessel rested a fine powder. He dipped his hand within, allowing it to run through his fingers like sand as a tear slid over his cheek. 

George retrieved the amber vial of potion he had created, his stomach roiling at the possibility that his actions may cause things to get worse somehow. It was preposterous, of course. Fred was long dead and his family was in tattered shambles and likely discussing his well-being one story below his feet. A single drop was enough to bring a flower from its decaying state. Two drops could save a guppie. Without any real way of knowing, George took a deep breath and turned his face as he poured the entire contents of the vial into the ashes. 

_ Please let this work. Please come back. Please. _

For too many long moments, absolutely nothing happened. The snickering sound had ceased, but the air in the room was completely still. He opened one eye and gave the urn a sidelong glance. What he saw caused him to startle and take a step back. 

The urn was glowing a fiery shade of red, and as he put his hand up to it, he could feel the heat radiating from it. He withdrew his hand, clapping it over his mouth as the urn began to rock back and forth, knocking against the wooden table top. It rattle and rocked, scooting across the table and leaving scorch marks in the oak as it edged closer. For a brief moment, the image of the Burrow catching fire flashed in his mind’s eye. 

_ “Aguamenti!”  _ A stream of water poured from the tip of his wand, turning to steam the moment it touched the red-hot metal. The urn got the table’s edge and paused before flinging itself to the floor. George stumbled back, falling to his rear as he scrambled to get away from the spilled contents. His hand, still covered in ashes from its dip, began to tingle and he lifted it to his face to watch the tiny particulate matter fly from his skin’s surface, as though being pulled by a magnet to the small dune created between his trainers on the floor. 

The urn’s contents began to stir, rising up and swirling in a harsh display of vermillion light. George shuffled backward, trying to get as far away from it as possible and trying to melt into the wall that slammed his back. Fear coursed through him, a moment of terrified realization that he had used Dark magic in unknown ways. 

All he could do was watch as the cremated remains rose up and began to take the solid form of Fred’s skeleton. Bony hands cupped a bare skull as a shriek burst forth from the mouth. George thought about the silencing spell he had stupidly tossed up, wondering if he would die alone at the hands of his brother’s ghoulish form. Skin stretched, taut and fetid across the bones and ginger hair began to sprout over pallid flesh. 

George’s hands quivered violently as he held his wand with both of them. The light was extinguished with a popping sound and his room was once again shrouded in dim light. He stared at his nude twin, who was now turning his head side to side and causing horrendous cracking noises in his joints. Upon seeing George cowering in the corner, a wide smirk grew over his face. “Why the fuck am I starkers, mate?”

Fred’s voice was hoarse, raspy with non-use, with an undertone like a horse’s hooves over gravel. George’s mouth fell open and he rose to his knees, which wobbled dangerously enough that he nearly collapsed forward. “Freddy?” 

“Yeah, Georgie? Why are you acting so funny? And why am I  _ naked _ ?” He looked around the room. “Where’s my bed?”

George stared in disbelief, trying to rise on shimmying legs. Fred was standing there, solid as an old oak tree, his chest rising and falling with breaths of life. His skin was a strange shade of sallow grey, and his freckles were far too dark. His head was missing clumps of hair and his eyes were nearly black as they darted around the room. But, Merlin’s left testicle, it was his twin. Alive and animated right in front of him!

Finally finding his strength, George thrust himself into a standing position and closed the space between them swiftly. Throwing his arms around his twin, he released a shrill,  _ “Freddy!” _

Fred patted him uneasily on the back twice before pulling away. “What is with you?” He turned his back to search through the wardrobe. “Where are my things?”

He lifted one of George’s shirts from the wardrobe and put on a pair of joggers. “I wonder what mum is making for dinner—I am ravenous all of a sudden.”

“Fred, no! Don’t go downstairs!” George screeched, sliding between Fred and the door.

“Why not?”

George searched the room for any excuse. “I-I wanted your input. I’ve been making a new potion and I wanted you to take a look.”

Fred’s face fell and he frowned. “You’ve been creating potion without me?”

“Just the one. When you were out with Angelina the other night.”

Fred’s frown immediately turned into a wicked grin. “Some night that was, too. But I’m hungry, so kindly move.”

George looked to the discarded plate of food from yesterday’s dinner, sitting with a stasis charm in his desk. “Mum brought dinner up to you.”

Fred eyed the plate and lifted the corner of a ham sandwich to his lips. “So what does this potion do?”

“It—” George moved toward the workbench and lifted a vial of clear liquid, “it doesn’t do  _ anything  _ yet. But I would like to be able to sell to the little lads and lasses of Hogwarts and have them all turn into little hobgoblins for a day. Picture it— goblin Quidditch.”

Fred gave a sympathetic nod and took a seat. “We need a strand of goblin hair, then. Which won’t be easy to obtain.”

George ran a hand through his hair and blew a long drag of breath out. Fred swatted at his neck. “Stop that breathing down my neck.”

George could hear his family beginning to disperse to their individual rooms for the night. Now that he had Fred preoccupied with a bogus potion, he had bought himself a least a few hours of time wherein he would figure out how to broach the subject with his parents. He sat on the bed, watching his brother examining the potion with the help of a magnifying glass. 

o-o-o

Light was filtering into the room when George opened his eyes. Groggy, he rubbed his palm harshly into his forehead as vague images of his deceased twin haunted him. Except these images were different from all the ones before it. Fred was rotten, gaunt, his voice too deep. 

Sitting up swiftly, George groaned as the room spun and his head felt as though it were going to explode. He felt as though he had drank about eight too many double shots of firewhisky and he could barely stand when he tried. He couldn’t recall drinking anything as he pried one eye open, taking in the sight of a broken urn and scorch marks across his workbench.  _ Fred! _

He wondered if Fred had slipped him something to make him so damn bone-achingly tired as he lifted himself up and walked on unsteady legs to the door. His wand was nowhere to be found and Fred had escaped the room. George moved as quickly as his pseudo-inebriated state would allow. 

His mother’s wails began to fill his ears, as Fred’s voice spoke in hushed tones. “Mum, why are you crying over eggs?” Fred asked, his tone insinuating Molly was off her rocker.

“H-How? What is going on?”

George rounded the corner to find his mother hovering in the corner, a tea towel clutched in her hands as she hugged it to herself. Her face was soaked with tears and splotchy underneath her freckles. Fred was crowding her, giving her very little space to even think. He strode across the kitchen and took his brother’s collar, pulling him away from their mum. “Mum, I was going to tell you.”

Arthur entered the room, his wand drawn and pointed directly at Fred’s face. Arthur’s entire face had subtle shiny burn marks across it. “Dad!” George yelped, trying to cross to him. “What happened?”

_ “What have you done, George?”  _ his father bellowed back, taking Molly’s hand as she pushed behind him. 

“Dad, I can explain!”

“This is not natural. We’ve told you for months that this was impossible!”

“Clearly not impossible! Look!” George pointed to where Fred was leaning back against the sink, eating an apple and eyeing them suspiciously.

“That,” Arthur began, lifting his trembling wand with slightly more confidence, “is  _ not  _ Fred!”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Is this about the face cream? Because it was only a harmless prank.”

“Harmless? It took off the top layer of my skin!” Arthur shrieked, closing his eyes as the burns across his cheeks pulled tight around his bones. 

“So maybe I used slightly too much acid root powder,” Fred shrugged, completely unfeeling as he made his way to the cupboards to look for more food.

“What are you talking about?” George asked, looking at his father’s marred face. 

“When I lathered my face with shave potion this morning, these-these  _ boils _ sprouted up!” his father replied, shaking as he remained blocking his wife from his deceased son. “I thought it was a mistake until he,” he pointed his finger in Fred’s direction, “showed up. His first reaction upon being brought back to life was to laugh at my misfortune!”

“Where’s Gin?” Fred questioned, eyeing the broom shed out in the garden.

“She’s not here, Freddy. Why don’t we have a seat?” George said, placing his hands on either side of Fred’s arms. 

His twin ripped from his clutches with superhuman strength, slamming George to the floor. Arthur shot a full-body bind in Fred’s direction to no avail. The curse bounced right off of him. “Why are all of you acting so barmy?” he questioned, heading toward the back door.

George stood weakly with his father’s assistance, his head still spinning from the unexplained intoxication and now the swift fall he’d taken. Fred stalked into the garden, George’s wand still in his grasp as the others stood still out of terror. “What have you done, son?”

“Dad, I didn’t think it would work. I’d hoped but I never thought—”

Arthur grabbed his shoulder and shook him harshly. “You used dark magic to bring someone back from the dead. Do you not see what a problem this is? Did you learn nothing in those books you’ve been reading?” 

“But...this was a potion, not a spell or incantation that brought him back. I took a Draught of Living Death and created the antidote.”

“You had no business doing such a thing. The dead should remain as such!” his mother trilled, her breathing heavy and labored.

George wrapped his arms around his parents. “No one understands. I feel like half of me is completely gone. I don’t feel as though I will ever be whole without him here. It’s always been Fred and George, Gred and Forge. And now, it’s just me and I cannot survive on my own!”

“George, we can get you help. But that,” his father pointed out of the window to where Fred was rummaging through the shed, “isn’t natural. He’s...he’s evil. He shows no remorse for hurting anyone.”

Molly wailed loudly, now blowing her nose into the tea towel she’d been clutching. “What do you propose we do now, Arthur? Kill him again? I can’t  _ live  _ through that a second time! We aren’t murderers!”

“Molly,” Arthur began, wrapping his arms around his wife, “we cannot let him free. No one can know. We’d all be tossed into Azkaban. George has created some type of inferi, and there isn’t a single person on the Wizengamot that would have leniency on him using this type of magic after the war’s end. The prison is more unforgiving than ever!”

“We can’t kill him!” George pushed past his father and crossed his arms protectively, feeling as though he was holding himself together. “Maybe we just need to give it time. He hasn’t been back long enough to get reacclimated back into the family.”

“He is unnatural. He comes from another world. There isn’t a single good thing that can come of this!” 

“Arthur. Maybe George is right. Perhaps we can give him a little time to get used to being back.”

“Molly,” Arthur said slowly, stooping to become eye-level with her, “he doesn’t even realize he was dead!”

“Are you going to raise your wand to him, then?” George questioned, feeling as though his soul were being split even further. He couldn’t imagine pointing his wand at his brother and killing him a second time. He couldn’t watch the light leave his eyes, to banish him from the world of the living once more. He had spent far too many nights missing his counterpart and feeling utterly alone. 

The sound of an explosion rocked the house, making the floors above them creak and rain dust down on their heads. They ran to the window to see what was happening, and Fred had the wand trained on a garden gnome, floating above him in the air. The ground was pocked with marks where he had attempted to blow the gnome out before finally catching him. Molly’s hand went over her mouth as she cried out at the sight of Fred blowing the gnome up into a grotesque balloon of sorts. 

Arthur shoved around them and flung the door open. “He’s trying to kill him!” 

Fred was laughing mirthfully as he bounced the rounded gnome against the ground with enough force to send plumes of dirt into the air. Arthur ran at Fred’s back, attempting to tackle him to the ground. George made to follow, but his mother grab at his shirt. “No! Do not go out there! He’s dangerous! It’s not Fred!  _ It’s not Fred!”  _

George pulled away and sprinted anyway, pushing the door open with such exuberance that it slammed off its hinges and fell into his mother’s basil garden. Molly’s piercing scream rattled through him and he felt as though his heart was simultaneously stopping and beating far too rapidly. 

“Geroff me!” Fred was groaning, pushing Arthur off of him as they tussled on the ground. 

Arthur was attempting to get him into a headlock when George reached them. “Don’t hurt him!” he yelled, though whom he was commanding and whom he was worried about was unclear.

A blinding flash of light shot forth from within Fred’s chest, blowing both of the other Weasley men back. When his back slammed against the ground, the wind was knocked completely out of his lungs. Gathering what little strength he had, George turned his head and glanced in his father’s direction. Arthur’s eyes were open, though there was no sparkle of life to them any longer. A thin trail of blood ran from between his lips, gathering on the grass beside his cheek. His wand rolled from his limp hand. “Dad!” George managed, the word little more than a croaking whisper. 

Fred got to his feet quickly and stood over Arthur with George’s wand pointed at his throat. “Are you all  _ mad?” _

The smell of smoke reached George’s nostril and he looked toward the house. In his bedroom’s second story window, he could see smoke tumbling around in an ominous circle, the tops of flames licking at it.  _ The urn _ . The nefarious vessel had no doubt caught something on fire—the curtains, his bed spread, the wood floor. His mum was still in the kitchen. He could see her retching into the sink. 

Unable to gather strength enough to get up, George watched helplessly as the fire raged just above his mother’s head. The window blew out of his bedroom, raining searing hot glass over all of them. He closed his eyes as shards burned his skin and scraped under his eyelids. Blood pooled from the scratches and his vision was blurred until all he could see was shapes moving. Fred was cackling once more, watching as mayhem rose around them and smoke danced viciously through the morning air. 

“We’ve done it now, Georgie! This prank is one for our records!”

George’s head tipped back and fell against the grass once more as his body succumbed to the pain. There was a hellacious rumbling as he began to drift from consciousness, the house’s upper floors collapsing down and his mother’s terrified screech earsplitting. The sound of Fred singing their mother’s favorite Celestina Warbeck song worked into the background noise, a sickening cacophony of noise amidst the chaos. 

_ “Double...double...toil and trouble...you get my fires burning and this cauldron to bubble!”  _

o-o-o

  
  



End file.
